Long before he was 2.5cc, Graham Gouldman penned a clutch of classic English pop songs for the likes of The Yardbirds (“For Your Love”) and Herman’s Hermits (“No Milk Today”). Rendered in a pleasingly plaintive style and boasting state-of-the-’60s-art baroque’n’roll arrangements from future Zep bassist John Paul Jones, Gouldman’s songs evoke a time when lyricists could still write cute little domestic vignettes full of everyday imagery and girl-next-door yearning without a shred of self-consciousness. As competent and assured in their way as the hit versions.

Unfairly consigned to a historical footnote, Handsome is?give or take the outr

From Duran Duran to Robbie Williams via New Pop, folk-rock and cash-in Britpop, Duffy’s career is not short of its curious ups and downs. But strangest of all may be the fact that he made his best album in collaboration with avant-yob Nigel Kennedy. Relishing a prog sheen after the austerity of The Lilac Time, Duffy’s witty, pretty Revolver-songs (“Natalie” and “Totem” are featherlight knock-outs) are strung between Kennedy’s psycho-classical “Transitoires”, and the result is an affecting, beguiling and seamless suite of neuroses, new roses and elegant heartache.

At 79, Scott continues to perform, despite suffering a minor heart attack on stage last year. Diagnosed with an hormonal deficiency in his teens that prevented his voice dropping, he turned the abnormality into an otherworldly asset. This handsome collection draws together selections recorded for several labels over five decades for the first time. What stands out is the awesome continuity, the angelic tone that held Marvin and Stevie in thrall, casting its spell into the 21st century. He’s too good to remain a cognoscenti secret.

Lists are crass. But let’s take a straw poll on Britain’s greatest ever female singer anyway. Dusty Springfield, Kate Bush and Norma Waterson all have strong claims. Then there’s Polly Harvey, Lisa Stansfield, Katie Melua… OK, that last name’s not a serious suggestion. But it illustrates the poverty of the shortlist. Over the years, Britain has not only failed to produce home-grown giants to rival Ella, Aretha and Nina, but we’ve even struggled to come up with our own Janis, Madonna or even Alanis. Yet by the time you’ve finished listening to these five CDs, you should conclude that there is one name among the ranks of British female vocalists who outclasses them all.

Sandy Denny started out as just another frumpy folk singer with an unusually pure voice. But she ended up as our answer to Joan Baez, Grace Slick and Joni Mitchell all rolled into one. The 88 tracks here are brilliantly selected to showcase both the breathtaking diversity and remarkable consistency of her talent.

She had an intuitive feel for traditional English ballads (“Tam Lin”, “A Sailor’s Life”, “Banks Of The Nile”). But she could also do justice to the songbooks of Leonard Cohen (“Bird On A Wire”) and Bob Dylan (“Si Tu Dois Partir”). She could rock (Buddy Holly’s “Learning The Game”, Little Feat’s “Easy to Slip”) and she could sing country (the unreleased “Silver Threads”, “Golden Needles” from the Fotheringay sessions). And on songs such as “Who Knows Where The Time Goes?”, “The Sea” and “No More Sad Refrains”, she proved she was a songwriter of some ability. Yet, by 1978, at the age of 31, she was dead.

The best of Denny’s widely available work with Fairport Convention, Fotheringay and solo is well represented. But almost a third of the tracks are previously unreleased, while another 17 have been difficult to track down until now. Among the most desirable gems are a wondrous version of Anne Briggs’ “Go Your Way My Love”, “Sir Patrick Spens” from a 1969 Peel session, and some extraordinary solo home demos of Denny originals such as “One Way Donkey Ride”, “All Our Days” and “The Music Weaver”?her tribute to the great Richard Thompson.

Just one complaint. Denny’s duet with Robert Plant on “The Battle Of Evermore” from Led Zeppelin IV would have been a valuable adornment. Yet, even without this, A Boxful Of Treasures?with suitably sumptuous packaging to reflect its title?is still a contender for most significant retrospective of the year.

While U2, fellow members of the mid ’70s Dublin clique known as Lypton Village, went on to become “the world’s biggest band” TM, the Village’s co-founders Virgin Prunes? led by Gavin Friday?pursued a far darker, experimental escape route. Their first four singles, collected as A New Form Of Beauty, make for brutally uncomfortable listening, though Colin Newman of Wire softens the edges on follow-up If I Die…. Her

Immediately after the demise of the Bonzos and long before he secured gainful employment with Rutland Weekend Television, Neil Innes made this little curio. Aided by former Bonzos sidekick Dennis Cowan, Innes showed that he was already in touch with his inner-Rutle, or at least his inner Badfinger, on “Angelina”and “Sail Away”. Unfortunately, as Innes himself indicates in the sleevenotes, the project was hastily conceived and executed and is characterised by too many undistinguished moments to make it an essential purchase for anyone other than Bonzos completists.

Back in 1989, any hyperbolic adjectives in the pages of Melody Maker that weren’t thrust upon The Pixies were more than likely generously bequeathed to fellow Bostonians Galaxie 500. On this collector’s disc of oddities (previously only available with Ryko’s now deleted 1996 box set) we’re reminded of the latter’s peculiar, not to say predictable, ability to make any and every song sound like The Velvet Underground’s “Heroin”. Young Marble Giants’ “Final Day” moulds effortlessly to the formula; The Rutles’ “Cheese And Onions” less so. Distracting, but ultimately fans-only fare.

For a group whose career spanned a mere 18 months, The Creation had a big impact on popular culture, giving rise to Alan McGee’s band (Biff Bang Pow!) and record label, while the Pistols, Ride and Boney M interpreted their songs. This, their ‘great lost album’, won’t excite the same response.

Recorded 20 years after the original group split up, it bears scant relation to their ’60s apogee, peddling as it does the kind of turgid, graceless rock that the one-time modernists set out to overthrow. “Radio Beautiful” has a certain unkempt charm but, ultimately, this is a lumbering reminder that precious little good comes from revisiting your past.